


Scars

by ComicBooksBro



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angel Blades (Supernatural), Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Angst, Apocalypse, Blood, Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Crying Dean Winchester, Dead Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Dean Winchester Whump, Eye Trauma, Field Surgery, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Not Beta Read, Now with a second chapter!, would you believe this was inspired by jensen Ackles’ quarantine hair?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComicBooksBro/pseuds/ComicBooksBro
Summary: The world ended. Cas is gone, and Sam is god-knows where.Dean is just trying to survive.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I've been sitting on this one for a while now and finally got up the guts to post it. Hopefully it's good! :)

Dean tried not to look at himself in the mirror. It was stupid, he knew, but like many other small, seemingly insignificant habits, it was what kept him going through the day. Besides, it wasn’t like he had much time to look in the mirror these days anyway. And that was a good thing, because Dean wanted nothing less than to see himself.

The right side of his face was mostly intact, at least. The other side was covered in small, white scars. Some from capture by demons, humans, or other monsters, and some were from shrapnel. He shivered, remembering the incident.

He had been trucking through Kentucky at the time. The car he was using had run out of gas, and he was hoofing it until he could find another one that wasn’t (a: destroyed, or (b: upside down.

Baby was long gone, turned over in the first couple weeks and left on the side of the road. Dean hadn’t wanted to leave her, but it was death to stay behind, and though he didn’t want to live, he wasn’t in the mood to die either.

Staying alive was harder than it looked, though, especially when he was trying to keep heaven off of his back.

It would probably be easier to stay off their radar if he ditched Cas, but he couldn’t do that to the angel—what was left of him, anyway. Cas was, for lack of a better word, dead. All that was left of him was his grace (which Dean kept bottled around his neck), and his trench coat (which was currently stuffed in the bottom of Dean’s duffel bag.)

Dean didn’t know why he had saved Cas’ grace, accept for the foolish hope that he could one day revive Cas. _I_ _f_ Cas’ soul (or the closest approximation for an angel) was in there with his grace, _if_ he could find a vessel, _if_ that worked, and _if_ he didn’t die along the way. It was all a very long series of _if's._

Thunder rumbled on Dean’s left, and he turned his head to see what had caught up to him this time. There was a revolving door of angels and demons, interspersed with the occasional vampire or crazy person; this time, it was angels. Nameless ones, thank Chuck. Dean didn’t think he could take a face he recognized telling him this was all his fault whilst attempting slow, bloody murder.

But, nameless or not, angels were angels—and angels were dangerous.

One of them walked towards Dean, their eyes flicking down to the bottle that held Cas’ grace. Dean took a cautious step back and pulled his gun for his waistband. It was loaded with angel-killing bullets—hard to get, but useful.

Dean raised his gun and fired directly into the chest of one of the two angels, felling them immediately. The second angel lunged at him, slashing her blade where Dean’s throat had been moments before. Dean grunted as he fell back, landing on his back. He gripped Cas’ grace with his free hand, and shot at the angel. She raised her angel blade to block his bullet, and that’s when everything went sideways.

The bullet must have hit the blade at the wrong angle, or a flaw, because the it exploded like a grenade. Bits of silver shrapnel flew everywhere—several of the larger ones caught the angel across her neck, and she was done for. Dean turned on his side, shielding himself from most of the damage, but not before he got a piece to the eye. Burning, shooting pain was all he could feel, and then, a sudden darkness was on his left side.

Then he had passed out.

***

Dean had woken up with his face covered in blood. His left eye was plastered closed, which was probably a good thing, because Dean didn’t know what would happen if he opened it. Blood matted his hair to his scalp and trickled down his neck. Dean franticly looked down, searching for the bottle that held Cas’ grace with his still-functioning eye. It was still hanging securely around his neck; Dean sighed in relief and squeezed it with his right hand.

He pushed himself the rest of the way to his feet, swaying slightly once he was standing. His left eye—hell, the whole left side of his face ached.

 _So,_ he thought, feeling out the scope of his injuries with a careful hand, _hospital it is._

***

The hospital was in ruins. Dean had expected as much, but at least it wasn’t raided dry. There was gauze, surgical tools, antiseptic, and painkillers. Impromptu surgery wasn’t exactly Dean’s forte, especially when he couldn’t see out of one of his eyes, and was pulling a chunk of metal out of said non-functional eye. He couldn’t take painkillers until he was finished for risk of getting woozy and messing up. 

He already knew his eye was good as gone, but he didn’t want to chance damaging anything else, so painkiller-less it was.

Yes it hurt—Dean nearly threw up just cleaning the blood off his eye—but these things had to be done. He _did_ throw up when it was all said and done, but it wasn’t like there was much in his stomach anyway.

He finished cleaning his eye, then turned his attention to the other tiny cuts that littered the left half of his face, and cleaned those, too. He stepped back to make sure he had bandaged everything and got his first real look at what he had become.

He had wrapped the left side of his face was in gauze, and there was a slight depression in the wrapping where his eye was. It was already tinting pink, an Dean made a mental note to replace it soon. Cuts covered the rest of the left side of his face, most of them were not bad enough to warrant attention, but there was a long one just under his ear, and another on his forehead, though it was hidden by his hair.

Dean ran a hand through his hair—God it must be almost as long as Sam’s, if not longer. He pulled it back a little, to get a better look at the cut. It wasn’t anything dangerous, but it would likely leave a scar. _That’s really all I am, now._ Dean thought, closing his eye. _A scar; a disgusting cut on humanity. If there’s any humanity left, that is._

He turned away from the mirror before he could notice anything else.

The sharp sliver of metal that he had removed from his eye lay on a metal tray, covered in blood and... Dean didn’t want to think about what else. He picked it up and wiped it off. It was about the size of a marble, but very sharp. He held it gingerly so as not to cut himself, then, after a moment of thought, stuck it in a pocket in his backpack. Angel blade metal wasn’t the easiest thing to come by, and you took what you could get.

Dean mindlessly packed a bag full of gauze and other medical supplies as he went over the fight in his head. _What had he messed up on? What could he do better next time?_ He sighed as he exited the half-destroyed hospital.

_Was this ever going to end?_

***

Dean sighed as he tiredly scanned the crumbling motel for anything that could hurt him, though he was much to tired to fight anything off, and much too loud to not have attracted anything in there. It was more out of habit than fear. He didn’t find anything.

He chucked his backpack onto the floor next to a semi-dry cushioned bench which was pressed against the wall, and threw himself onto the couch. It wasn’t in great condition, but still better than what he had seen in recent days. He leaned against the wall and took a deep breath, fighting back the urge to scream, just to hear something.

It had been ages since he had listened to music. He carried around an old cassette player and some tapes in the bottom of his bag. It wasn’t likely he’d ever be able to listen to them again, but holding onto something of his old life was somehow reassuring, and he held tight to the idea that he could use them again.

Not talking was easier than you’d think, but the constant nothingness of the apocalypse was harsh. Being silent was important, though. There was no end to the things that were listening, and while that number had gone down significantly since the beginning, old habits died hard. Talking was limited to when Dean felt safe—or, at least not in imminent danger.

He held the glowing blue vial that contained Cas’ grace in his hand and turned it over, wondering it Cas was really in there; and if he was, if he could hear Dean.

“Hey, Cas...” Dean whispered, his voice raspy with disuse. “I’m getting close to home. I’ll be there soon. Within the week, hopefully. If I don’t die.” He sighed and rested the back of his head against the damp wall. “I miss you.” He closed his eyes. “I love you.” He pressed his lips to the cold glass, then dropped the bottle, letting it fall against his chest.

He knew it was stupid, talking to Cas’ grace like it could talk back, but it made him feel better—like he wasn’t alone. At one point he had traveled with other people, but quickly discovered that meant death for everyone when the angels found him. There had been a dog, too, for a while: a mangy, skinny, black-and-white mess of fur. Sam would have laughed his ass off at the idea of Dean having a dog.

Dean had dropped it off at the first settlement he found. He didn’t want to be responsible for any more death. Ever since then he had been alone—except for talking to Cas, he hadn’t spoken to... well, anything, in months.

He’d be at the bunker soon enough, though. It was safe there, he could talk then. He could do whatever there, because the bunker was _safe._ It had to be.

Hopefully someone else had survived, because Dean didn't know if he could make it alone.

_Hopefully._

_If._

Those two words were the only thing keeping Dean alive, and he’d believe in them until all hope was gone.

***

Dean tried not to look in the mirror, because if he saw himself, saw what he had become, saw the marks of his failures imprinted across his body, he might lose hope.

And at this point, it was all he had left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean arrives at the bunker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wasn't planning on writing anything else in this au, but I got some nice comments asking for more, and turned this out. I hope you guys like it!

Dean took a heavy step forward, leaning on a section of collapsed wall. His gait faltered and he was almost sent tumbling to the ground, but managed to catch himself on a piece of rebar. His left leg had gone numb beneath the knee within the past few days, and it was greatly impeding his progress. He could still walk on it, but he leaned to the right when he tried to stand straight, and was prone to stumbling.

He had reached Lebanon now. It had taken a long time—longer than he had wanted, but he had made it. The town was destroyed, of course, like everything else in this Chuck-forsaken world. The few buildings still upright were looted bare, and Dean didn’t bother looking for supplies.

He pretended not to notice the bones lining the street.

The bunker wasn’t far away now. He’d be there before it got dark, barring any unforeseen circumstances. Luckily, the sky seemed clear, and there wasn’t a living thing in sight.

_Luckily._

Dean sighed and limped forward.

It wouldn’t be long before he knew who, if anyone, had survived.

_Did he really want to know?_

***

The bunker was just as Dean had left it: clean, and awaiting an unlikely return. The door creaked open, and Dean unsteadily stepped inside, then shut the door behind him.

“Sam?” He shouted, trying to ignore the crack in him voice. “Jack?” He started down the hall, calling out for anyone he could think of. “Bobby?”

He speed-walked down the hall, not trusting himself to run without collapsing, and continued to call out. “Charlie?”

He slammed each door he came across open, not caring if anything heard him. It _couldn’t_ be empty here; the bunker was a safe haven— _someone_ had to be here. But, in time, every room was searched, and with each empty space, Dean felt more of his already wavering hope crumble.

The first tear fell when he entered Cas’ room. He stood in the doorway of the space that belonged to Cas only in theory, and sobbed. Cas had never moved in, not really, but the room had been his. He had his own place in the bunker, and he would never have the chance to move in—never have the chance to make it _his._ Dean clutched at Cas’ bottled grace, gasping in silent, tiny bursts.

The glass was cold and grounding against his hand, and he backed out of the room, his shoulder catching on the doorway. He caught himself on the back wall, and sank to the floor, breath still hitching. He couldn’t do this—he _couldn’t,_ not without someone else.

He pulled himself together and stood. He wasn’t going to stay here, in front of Cas’ room, tears drying on his face. Hauling himself to his feet, Dean continued down the hall. Everything remained unchanged from the time Dean had been there last. It was eerie.

“Hello?” He rasped, low voice breaking. The only reply was silence.

“Hello?”

Limping more quickly, Dean made it a point to get as far from Cas’ room as he could. He searched the rest of the bunker without coming across more than the occasional out-of-place weapon they had probably left out before the final battle.

Other than that, he found nothing, and no one.

Soon enough, Dean circled back around to the entrance and, from there, headed back to the kitchen. He pulled open one of the cabinets and found half of a box of granola bars—the crumbly kind Sam liked. It tasted like ash in his mouth, but it was food: not possibly poisonous berries or weird leaves or roasted squirrels—actual _food._

He ate three and tried not to think about the fact that Sam couldn’t.

Exhaustion tugged at his limbs, and he leaned against the counter for support. He needed sleep, but the idea of closing his eyes and willingly surrendering to the dark was not something he wanted to experience. Instead, he returned to the bathroom. The air conditioning was on full blast, and he shivered as he looked at the shower.

It was at that moment Dean realized he hadn’t taken a shower in more than three months. He looked down at his hands and forearms, which were covered in blood, dirt, and soot. His gaze flicked back to the shower, taking care to avoid his reflection.

Tentatively, he stepped forward, dropping his bag on the floor, opening the shower, and flipping it on. There were a few moments of nothing, then water spluttered out of the faucet, weakly at first, then more powerfully. Dean stepped back, watched the water for a minute, decided it was safe to get in, and peeled off his jacket. He let it fall to the floor, then pulled off his flannel, and his shirt. Scars littered his chest and stomach, and Dean looked away, instead focusing on his boots.

He sat down before pulling them off, not trusting his legs to hold him. Before long he was stepping into the shower, shuddering as steamy water flowed over his aching shoulders. He tilted his face up, eye closed, and sighed. He could feel the layers of dirt and blood coming off of him.

_Whose blood, exactly, Dean? Is it yours? Some monster’s? Your family’s?_

The wet, hot feel of water overwhelmed him, suddenly too much like blood, and Dean found himself on the ground, bad leg folded awkwardly beneath him. His eye filled with tears for the nth time that day, and now he made no move to try and restrain them.

“I’m sorry!” He wailed to no one in particular. “Cas, Sam, Jack—I’m _sorry!”_ His voice broke, and he could feel his underused vocal cords straining. “It should’ve been me!” He coughed and winced. _“I’m sorry!”_

He let out a hiccuping sob and buried his head in his hands. Warm water ran over his face, stinging his scars and working eye. He watched the dark, dirty water swirl down the drain, and wished all the pain would wash off him as easily.

Dean would never be clean again, not really. He could take 1,000 showers and never truly wash the feel of darkness from his body.

He sat there for a long time, waiting for the water to run cold and clear his mind. It never did, and eventually he turned it off and staggered out of the shower. The towel he picked up was soft, and gentle against his scarred skin. He looked at it again, after toweling his hair dry, and noticed it was streaked with brown.

_You’ll never be clean._

Dean picked up his bag and stumbled to his room.

***

Dean was in the war room again, dressed in flannel pajama pants and red and black checkered plaid with Cas' trench coat layered over it. It may have seemed ridiculous, but he didn't want to let the coat out of his sight.

The heater was working, and Dean felt warm, really warm, for the first time in a long time. Stifling a yawn, Dean shuffled back to the kitchen, intent on staying close to the food, just in case things went sideways and he needed to make a quick getaway. However, that plan was quickly aborted when his eyes found the liquor cabinet. He grabbed a bottle.

It was the end of the world and everyone he knew was dead: getting blackout drunk was the only way he knew how to process this. He took a long gulp and winced at the feel of the alcohol on his raw throat. It was really barely a pinch compared to what he had already been through, but it didn't stop the ache in his heart.

He took another pull from the bottle, then another, and another, until the world started to go fuzzy around him. Fuzzier than it already was, at any rate. He pulled Cas’ trench coat more tightly around him and stumbled his way back to his room. If he was going to pass out and die of alcohol poisoning, he was gonna do it in his bed, damnit.

He sank into the mattress, barely getting there before his leg gave out. His stomach churned and he spit up a mouthful of acidic, brownish sludge over the side of his bed. Shrugging, he washed his mouth out with more liquor and swallowed.

He was dimly aware of the sound of glass smashing and the bottle falling from his hands as his tired eye slipped closed.

He could clean it up tomorrow. Things would be more clear tomorrow.

They had to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> :)


End file.
